Bottom Feeder Read online

  Her grip tightens. “Shhh,” she soothes. I sit up and press my forehead to her shoulder. Her arms immediately go around my neck, her hands in my hair.

  “This is never going to end,” I say, defeated. “The nightmares. The anger. The guilt. I’m paranoid to a fault. The psychs aren’t helping. Nothing helps.”

  “I’m so sorry you have to go through this,” she says, her voice a beautiful whisper in my ear. “I wish I could take it all from you, Jackson. I promise I would. I hate this.” I nuzzle further into her shirt, feeling vulnerable and not caring one bit about how weak this makes me.

  “What am I supposed to do?” I ask without really looking for an answer. It just feels so good to have her arms wrapped around me that any sense of shame is pushed away. “I don’t know if I killed anyone, Maddy, but someday a God I’m not sure I believe in will punish me.”

  “No.” Her lips brush against my ear as she whispers, “You cannot go through life thinking about punishment and reward with each action you take or reaction you have. When you get to a place like that—with that kind of thinking—it’s dangerous. You begin punishing yourself, thinking you deserve whatever bad things come your way. If any of those bullets were meant for you, they would have hit you. Because they hit someone or somewhere else means you still have something in your life to accomplish, something to live for. This is your second chance at life, Jackson. Your chance to do something worthwhile, something great. Don’t waste that. You can’t live if your only reason for waking up each day is to survive.” She turns my face to hers. “And those doctors? Their job is not to fix you. They are there so you can learn to fix yourself.”

  I press my forehead to hers, nose-to-nose. I stare into her sapphire eyes and wonder if I am good enough for this girl. If I deserve someone like her.

  “Thank you, Maddy,” I whisper, our lips almost touching.

  “You’re welcome,” she whispers back.

  I kiss her cheek.

  Stand.

  Leave.

  Saturday night, after a full day of painting Mrs. Brenner’s house and replacing her top floor windows, I am exhausted and starving. I decide to find the nearest buffet within walking distance. I’m tying up my sneakers when Mama strolls through the door with an armful of piping hot food.

  “I’ve been so busy at the shop this week,” she says, placing the food on the kitchen table. “I haven’t had time to cook a real supper. I got your favorites.” She hands over two boxes from the stack.

  My stomach drools at the sight of chocolate pecan pie and pralines. In no time at all, I devour a full plate of perfectly fried chicken, mac and cheese, collard greens and buttermilk biscuits. After letting the main course settle I greedily eat half the pie then stretch out on the floor with one hand in the container of pralines and the other rubbing my full stomach.

  “That was so good,” I mutter lazily.

  “You should thank Maddy,” Mama replies. “That is, if you’re talking to her.”

  Everything I’ve done since I came home has revolved around this girl that should mean nothing to me. She has overtaken damn near every aspect of my life. I am beginning to resent her for that.

  “I don’t have to talk to her.” Ignoring the surprised look on Mama’s face, I add, “She’s not my responsibility.”

  “I didn’t say she was.” Her tone is cool. Indifferent.

  “It’s just that I . . . she’s not . . .”

  “No need to explain anything to me, Jackson Benton Monroe.” The dismissal is obvious. I should keep my mouth closed. I don’t. I can’t. If there was an ounce of honesty inside me right now, I could admit that I’m afraid of what I’m starting to feel for Maddy.

  I don’t want those feelings. Or need them. I’m too selfish and fucked up for anyone right now.

  “Why not? She’s someone you want me to be with, so why wouldn’t I have to expl—”

  “You do not have to explain anything to me.” The look on her face tells me I’ve crossed a line. Mama places the latest Stephanie Plum novel face-down on the table. “You are too much like your father to ever see what’s in front of you and who will stand behind you no matter what.”

  “Mama . . .”

  “This is not about Maddy, JB, it’s about you. Cordell made you take her out the other night. He made you go to his house on Thursday when he wasn’t home. What father would allow his seventeen-year-old daughter to be alone in his house with a nineteen-year-old man? There’s something seven shades of shady going on. If I know that I’m willing to bet Maddy does, too. Have you ever thought about how your actions can hurt someone? Or do you even care? You used her to get something for yourself. Never in my life have I known you to be selfish. Until now. Maybe the army changed you. Maybe it was the war. Or maybe, just maybe, this is the real you. And that scares the hell out of me. The one thing I never wanted to happen is happening right now: you are turning out to be just like Michael Benton.”

  My body deflates at the second mention of my father in as many minutes. I did not miss the lack of apology at the comparison.

  Nightmares about Mama, Michael, and Cordell plague my sleep. When my usual nightmare begins Maddy appears in full army gear at my side, guiding me across the mountain range. My legs do not sink in this time and my bootlaces are tied. We finally reach my team. The sniper’s shot whistles past my ear as usual. The nightmare doesn’t end here. The bullet stops, turns around and moves toward my head in slow motion; so slow and close that I can tell the logistics of the round is a .338 Lapua Magnum. Out of the corner of my eye I see Maddy jump and take what is meant for me.

  Maddy

  Have you ever felt like your existence is about to be spun for a loop? It’s not New York or leaving my life behind or willing my lustful crush on Jackson to disappear. No, it’s something bigger. The feeling is a breath of fresh air after being under water too long. It is standing in front of a mirror and, for the first time, seeing a reflection and not just an image. It’s that infinite moment Chbosky wrote about.

  I feel that today.

  “Open up!” Dixon yells after a drumroll knock on my bedroom door. “I’ve got storrries!”

  I unlock and open the door to my cheesy-grinned best friend.

  “Ew. No stories.” The last thing I want to hear about is how Dixon scored and I can’t even manage a kiss. My skin still burns from the feel of Jackson’s lips on my cheek. That night was so surreal, almost like it never happened.

  “Well, you’re no fun.”

  I shrug.

  “Wow. Emo, much?” He sprawls out on his bed.

  “How was Tennessee?”

  “Same as always,” he replies. “Now you. Tell me about leaving Emil’s party with Lamont Washington right after Chris clocked him for dancing with you.”

  I roll my eyes. “He didn’t hit him for dancing with me.”

  The Jarrett family outings are always sans technology, so I have not spoken to Dixon since the morning after the party. That visit was only to say goodbye for his few days away from civilization. I replay my night at the party, beginning with dancing and ending with going semi-psycho on Jackson in the hotel parking lot.

  “Hell yeah, Maddy!” Dixon holds his hand out for a fist bump. “I knew you wouldn’t fall for his stupid shit.”

  “Yeah,” I say, stuffing clothes into a suitcase. I want to tell him the truth: that I have, in fact, fallen for Jackson’s stupid sh—er, stuff. “I just wish it were different, you know?”

  “No, you don’t,” he replies soberly. “Not with him. Especially when a deal with you-know-who is involved.”

  Dixon is right. Still, there is an ache in the pit of my stomach that’s never been there before. An ache that surfaced when I knew Jackson was going to Laney’s house. The same ache was made stronger when Lamont whispered in my ear that Jackson would never be seen with me. The worst, most gut wrenching ache came when he let me in on a little piece of his war experience. I wanted to take the pain and guilt away from him. I wanted to tak
e it on myself so he wouldn’t have those nightmares, so he wouldn’t feel what I have felt for so long.

  What is it about Jackson that makes me feel like this? The upcoming week in Fayetteville is going to be like pouring salt on a fresh wound.

  My cell phone rings, breaking through some R-rated thoughts of a certain sandy haired fellow who holds my hand and leaves a trail of heat where his lips were pressed on my skin. “Will you answer that, DJ?” I yell from inside my closet.

  Dixon pushes the phone into my hand. “I’ll be back in a few hours. I need to wash the nature off of me and start packing.”

  I look at the phone warily. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Maddy,” the voice says. “It’s Chris.”

  I breathe a sigh of relief. “What’s up?”

  “I wanted to apologize for the other night.”

  “Lamont is the one you punched, not me.”

  “True,” he laughs. “I shouldn’t have left like that. I was angry. Listen, hey, can I come see you?”

  Ten minutes later, I rush to the gate where Chris answers my greeting with a strong embrace; something I didn’t know I needed until his arms were wrapped around my shoulders.

  “So you’re leaving, huh? N-Y-C!” Chris says, leaning against a pillar. “Jackson is taking you?”

  “Yep and yep.” Claps of thunder roar overhead, followed by tiny pin-pricking raindrops. “Let’s go inside.”

  I lead Chris into the kitchen, thankful the house appears to be empty. After offering him something to eat or drink, he settles at the breakfast bar with a glass of sweet tea and two scones. When Jackson left the rooftop that night—or morning, I should say—I came downstairs and baked everything I could think to bake. Then I went to the grocery store and bought more ingredients to bake more baked goods.

  Chris takes a bite of the maple scone. “Listen, Maddy, I wanted to tell you this before, but since—” He pauses, taking another bite of scone. And another. “Thank you.”

  “For?”

  “For giving up valedictorian. Other than Lamont, no one in my family knows. It means a lot to them—and me—that I stood up there and delivered a bullshit speech about our futures.”

  My goodness there are no secrets in this town. “How did . . .”

  “I worked in the office, remember? I kept a close eye on my competition.”

  I pick at my cuticles. “Chris . . .”

  He holds his hands up to stop me. “I know, I know. I just couldn’t let you leave without saying thanks.” He looks around the kitchen. “Think you’ll ever come back?”

  “No,” I reply honestly. “No, I don’t think I will.”

  He nods as if he already knew the answer.

  I hear the front door open and close. “Maddy!”

  I jump from the chair and start putting some of the scones, muffins, and a few other pastries in a bakery box.

  “My cue to leave?” Chris asks.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, grabbing his hand and leading him to a side door.

  “Maddy,” Larry’s lips curl into a smirk. He glances at my fingers interlaced with Chris’s. “Who’s your friend?”

  Straightening my spine and slapping a smile on my face, I reply, “You know Chris Washington, Mr. Duvall. He came to pick up these pastries for Mrs. Washington.”

  While the two shake hands and exchange small pleasantries, I mentally prepare for battle.

  “He doesn’t take too kindly to black folks, huh?” Chris asks once we are outside the gate.

  “Honestly,” I say, still holding his hand like a lifeline. “I don’t think he takes too kindly to any folks, no matter what race they are.”

  “He’s creepy.”

  “That he is.”

  With a deep, cleansing breath, I step back inside the house.

  THWACK!

  My ears ring with a hit I didn’t see coming. I waver without losing complete balance. Larry’s hand whirls in the air for another open-handed slap.

  This time, I duck.

  “God, you’re such a slut!” he barks, going for another slap. I bob-and-weave the next few fists that swing at my face.

  “Larry Duvall,” I say calmly, stepping backwards into the kitchen. “I told you the last time would be the last time.”

  “Maddy!” My father calls from somewhere in the house. The distraction gives Larry a chance at one last closed-fist swing that sends me staggering. My face plants on a wrought iron wall sconce. I’ve always hated those stupid things.

  “Maddy!” My father yells again. “You home?”

  I straighten from my semi-crouched position. I remove the elastic band from my hair so the strands cover my face. “In the kitchen, Daddy!”

  “One word,” Larry Duvall says next to my ear. “Gets your precious Violet gutted and fed to the swamp.”

  “Larry,” my father greets, entering the kitchen. “I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I dropped in to see Maddy before she leaves us,” Larry answers, once again turning his lips into a smirk.

  “Did she thank you for stopping by?” My father asks like I’m not in the room.

  Genuine hurt spreads across the monster’s face. “She sure didn’t.”

  My father shoots me a look of death. “Madelyn Faith Carrington, where’re your manners? I raised you better.”

  I muster up a convincing smile. “I was just getting to that when you came in, Daddy.”

  The primer, BB cream, liquid foundation, concealer and pressed powder I put on to cover up the marks left by Larry are wearing off by the time Dixon returns at eight p.m. to find me asleep in my closet. He wakes me with a kiss on the forehead.

  “I know you can’t tell anyone,” he whispers, tears rolling down his flawless face. “But you don’t have to hide this from me.” He gently wipes away the makeup.

  I never told Dixon about Larry. He figured it out after I used the same explanations for the bruises on my face and body. I was such an amateur back then. I made another deal with Larry to stop hitting my face or anywhere else visible.

  I understand it’s not normal to make deals with your abuser. You take any break you can get, though.

  When Dixon told me he knew what was happening I threw up on his shoes. Not exactly my finest moment, but I’ve had worse.

  “Want to get out of here tonight?” he asks.

  “I want to get out of here for good,” I reply, resting my head on his shoulder.

  I never care about looking or feeling weak in front of him. He’s seen me at my worst, my best, and everything in between.

  I change into pajamas, grab an overnight bag and climb in Dixon’s Bronco. We spend the rest of the night on his living room floor watching 80s Brat Pack movies, eating fried okra, vegetarian pizza and not-so-vegetarian hot wings.

  Later I sit next to a sleeping Dixon and think about my conversation with Agent Mace a few days ago.

  “We need you to extract some information from Cordell’s personal computers,” he said.

  “In the house?”

  “And the main warehouse.”

  I fidgeted on the warm leather seats of the Lincoln Town Car. “How do you expect me to get inside the warehouse without being seen?” Cameras are everywhere on that property, inside and out. Not to mention a full security team on shift at all times.

  “The basement window at the back is low enough for you to climb in without being hurt or seen. The cameras will be disabled in two-minute intervals. That is all the time we can give you without the security company being notified and the on-site security team becoming suspicious. Every movement needs to be carried out precisely to the last detail or you’re caught. I don’t have to tell you what happens if you are caught.” The agent sighed and adjusted his cuff links. “We’re low on help with this case, Madelyn. Cordell has a lot of people in his pocket. This investigation is low-tech and low-profile. We have evidence for suspected murders, but our case for Cordell goes deeper than the murder of a few locals. I can’t tell you any more than that. I�
��m only telling you this much because I suspect he knows you have spoken with us.”

  I nodded. I figured as much.

  “From here on out,” Agent Mace continues, “Our communication will be limited. Do not attempt to contact us, we will come to you.”

  The car came to a stop in front of the farmer’s market. Jackson looked up from the tailgate of Mrs. Brenner’s truck.

  “Keep that soldier away from Cordell,” Agent Mace says. “They are too dangerous together.”

  Dangerous? Jackson?

  “Be at the church on the corner of Abecorn and East Harris Sunday morning at one fifteen. This car will pick you up and drop you close to the warehouse.”

  I handed over the cell phone and exited the car with a flash drive, instructions on what to do and how to do it. Agent Mace also provided a cover story if I’m caught downloading files from the house and warehouse. Doesn’t matter, though. If anyone catches me, I’m dead.

  I glance at the clock. 12:23 a.m.

  I pull out my makeup bag and begin my usual foundation routine.

  The night Jackson came over I went to the roof to conceal the drive inside the chaise cushions. I finished downloading the content of Daddy’s computer only minutes before I heard the gate ring and managed to shove the drive inside my bra instead.

  Clever, I am not.

  Downloading the information was easy, though. A little too easy, if I think about it enough.

  12:25 a.m. I sigh heavily and tap Dixon’s shoulder.

  “Time to go?” he asks sleepily.

  “Time to go.”

  By 12:30 he is shifting Mrs. Jarrett’s minivan in neutral and backing it down his driveway. The ignition turns over silently. At the end of the street he turns on the lights and begins the drive into Savannah.

  “Tell me again,” I say.

  “Maddy, we’ve been over this a thousand times.”